


Don't Let Go

by ladypigswagon



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Angst, Post Season 2, Season 2 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3660360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t let go,” Stiles pleads, face tear stained, clinging desperately to Peter’s hand, “Don’t let go now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> Anon asked: Steter and "Don’t let go now."
> 
> It was an angst prompt but it ended in smutty happiness.

“Don’t let go,” Stiles pleads, face tear stained, clinging desperately to Peter’s hand, “Don’t let go now.”

“I’ve got you,” Peter replies, struggling to pull Stiles to safety. The battle rages behind them, deafeningly loud and ferocious but in this moment all Peter hears is Stiles sobs, his ragged breathing. He won’t let Stiles fall. He won’t lose Stiles. Not now. Not ever.

Somewhere behind Peter there is the snapping of bones into tiny pieces and the sound of bones rebuilding themselves. Rain begins to fall, thick, heavy droplets pounding the earth. The witch is lashing out by manipulating the weather now. The wind begins to pick up, an angry roar. The rain is making Peter’s grip slippery.

“Peter!” Stiles is screaming, his voice lost to the hammer of the rain. 

“Get her by the throat,” someone yells. It might be Derek. The wind gets strong, a fierce tornado whipping around them. Peter is slipping off the cliff, rocks are crumbling beneath him and he can’t pull Stiles up. He has to but he can’t. The cliff crumbles and they fall together. Peter yanks Stiles to his chest, cradles him close to minimize the damage once they reach the bottom.

Down.  
  
Down.  
  
Down…

Peter’s eyes snap open, heart pounding and sweat dripping from his brow. He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist. The red neon numbers on the beside table tell him it’s 2.30am. It’s 2.30am and Peter is alone.

Peter is always alone. 

Peter gets up to make himself a peppermint tea, something that will settle him and maybe he’ll be able to get back to sleep tonight. It’s not like Stiles is even dead, Peter’s subconscious just likes to torture him with the thought of losing somebody else. Stiles scent is practically imprinted on Peter’s couch from the numerous times he’s passed out on it in the middle of research. Peter snags a throw pillow on the way to the kitchen, breathes in Stiles mixed scent of old books, the pavement after it’s rained and cinnamon. He despises how it comforts him. 

He fills the kettle before switching it on, hugging the pillow close. It’s not as good as the real thing, far from it but it’s close enough for Peter. He doesn’t know when the obsession started. No that’s wrong, he knows exactly when it started, he just wishes he didn’t.

That night in the parking garage, holding Stiles wrist to his mouth, that scent filling his nose. Peter nearly claws the pillow to pieces at the thought. To prevent the loss of a perfectly good throw pillow, Peter returns it to the couch before focusing on making his tea. Peppermint fills the tiny apartment, soothing and mellow. Admittedly a little bit like Christmas but that can’t be helped.

Peter turns on the radio, sipping his tea as he fiddles with the dial until static becomes smooth jazz. He wonders where Stiles is, what he’s doing. More than likely Stiles is asleep, stretched out like a starfish on his bed, imbedding it with his intoxicating scent. 

But perhaps Stiles is awake. Perhaps Stiles is thinking of Peter, thinking of Peter’s mouth on him, marking that pretty skin with teeth. Peter wants to see it bruised, not by Stiles innate clumsiness but by Peter’s fingers and teeth. He’d be gentle the first time, teasing touches and soft kisses; working Stiles open until Stiles is pleading for Peter to fuck him. After that Peter would be rough, demanding, taking. Peter palms himself through his cotton pajamas at the thought. Stiles would be so good for him, so responsive. 

Peter sets the cup down on the kitchen side jarringly. He shoves a hand into his pajama pants, curling it around his dick and tugging. He closes his eyes, the better to pick out Stiles scent from his own. He concentrates on it, imagines it would be strongest at Stiles neck and crotch. Peter wants to bury himself in the scent, drink it in and force it to mingle with his own. The very idea of Stiles wearing Peter’s scent is what drives him over the edge. Washing his hands, Peter wonders if Stiles would be willing to lick cum from Peter’s fingers. 

Peter drinks his tea, dumps the cup in the dishwasher and goes back to bed. He dreams of fucking Stiles into the mattress.

 

Pack meetings are definitely becoming monotonous in Peter’s opinion. His position of morally ambiguous pack elder is dull, especially when Scott has to be the packs moral compass. It’s irritating that teenagers are the best options for the bite because teenagers are so annoying. Actually Scott and Jackson are annoying. Isaac, Erica and Boyd at least have the sense to realize that sometimes the monster of the week (as Stiles has endearingly dubbed it) just has to die. Allison supports Scott’s rainbow and sunshine worldview whereas Jackson is just an arrogant douche. Luckily Lydia has him wrapped around her little finger otherwise they’d never get anything done.

There isn’t even anything to kill this week more’s the pity. They’re just sparring with each other with Derek correcting their technique. Allison is teaching Stiles and Lydia some self defense which is pointless because Stiles refuses to punch Lydia and Lydia is never going to get her hands dirty. Peter would consider leaving them to it but when Stiles sweats his scent becomes stronger. It gains an almost spicy tang and frankly it would be remiss of Peter not to indulge in it. 

Peter lounges on the newly replace porch of the Hale House, observing each of the sparring partners in turn. Scott is fast but sloppy, Isaac the opposite. Boyd uses his strength but it needs channeling to be fully useful. Erica is a little shit and uses everything and anything to win. Peter likes Erica. Jackson despite his aggressive, defensive attitude is not a fan of conflict. Peter wonders when Derek will stop being so patient with him.

“Motherfucker,” Stiles hisses. Peter turns his head to see Lydia pinning Stiles to the forest floor. “I think there’s a twig poking me in the ass.”

“That’s what she said,” Erica shouts, roundhouse kicking Scott in the head. Peter really likes Erica. 

“Would you at least try Stiles?” Allison implores, helping Stiles to his feet. Stiles grumbles under his breath, brushing off leaves and debris. Those sweatpants do nothing for Stiles figure. Peter wants them on the floor. Preferably followed by Stiles in his bed. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just charm Stiles into bed but there’s a part of him that wants Stiles to come willingly. He wants Stiles to initiate. That way he’d know it was genuine. 

Peter watches Stiles getting floored by Lydia a few more times before he leaves. He says it’s because he finds their ineptitude embarrassing but in reality it’s so he can go home and jerk off to the thought of pinning Stiles down in the woods.

 

It’s midnight and Peter cannot sleep no matter what position he’s in. He’s jerked off to the thought of Stiles twice but that doesn’t sooth him. He twists the sheets in his hands, flopping around like a fish. This lack of sleep is starting to become grating. 

The doorbell rings. Peter freezes. He can smell Stiles, the scent clear and fresh. Hear his heartbeat, steady as a mountain. Peter get’s his libido in check before going to answer the door.

“Stiles to what do I owe-” Peter begins but never finishes. He ends up with an armful of Stiles, plush pink lips pressed to his. Peter growls, kicking the door closed so he can pin Stiles against it. Stiles’ eyes are wide, pupils expanded to eclipse the whiskey irises. Peter holds Stiles against the door with his hips, hands trapping Stiles wrists.

“Well, what brought this on?” Peter asks silkily, pressing his forehead against Stiles’.

“I know how you look at me,” Stiles retorts, “Got bored of waiting. I want you right now.”

Peter isn’t going to argue with a steady heartbeat. He kisses Stiles softly, tenderly. Stiles nips and bites but Peter is persistent in his gentleness. He lets go of Stiles hands so he can cup his ass and pull Stiles up. Stiles wraps his legs around Peter’s waist, grinding against him. Peter tugs at Stiles bottom lip when he feels the press of Stiles dick.

Peter carries Stiles to the bedroom, stopping briefly to press him into a few walls and bite marks into Stiles’ neck while Stiles kicks off his shoes. Peter lays him down gently before yanking off Stiles clothes as if they offend him. Peter removes his own pajamas, not caring where they fall. He flicks Stiles nipples, enjoying the way Stiles arches into the touch. 

“Want you to fuck me,” Stiles says, gasping when Peter runs a claw over his skin. Peter kisses and bites along Stiles collar, fingers trailing down Stiles stomach. Fingers are soon replaced with kisses and teeth. Stiles moans with each mark, sometimes a string of babbled monosyllabic words instead. Peter grabs lube from the left bedside table draw, ripping it open with his teeth and coating his fingers. He presses one into Stiles hole, noting how loose it already is.

“Fucked myself on my fingers thinking of you.” Stiles is breathless. Peter growls again, the urge to claim barely being suppressed. He adds more fingers, stretching Stiles open. Stiles throws his head back, grips Peter’s shoulders and digs his blunt nails in. Peter laps at the head of Stiles dick, timing it right so that he licks and grazes Stiles prostate simultaneously. The reaction is pure bliss.

“Need you in me like yesterday,” Stiles pants, “Get a fucking move on.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Peter all but purrs. He gets a mild flick on the ear for that comment. Peter laughs, nuzzles Stiles thigh and bites a few marks into the milky flesh before lining himself up. He presses in, closing his eyes to fully appreciate the hot clench of Stiles body. He brushes his fingers along Stiles hips, tantalizing touches. Then he flips them over so the Stiles is riding his cock.

Stiles gasps at the fullness before fucking himself on Peter’s cock; skin flushed and slick with sweat. The pace is anything but gentle. Stiles appears to be determined to hit his prostate every time.

“Look at you,” Peter says, running his hands up Stiles thighs, “So beautiful. Bet you’ve thought about this. Wasted many a night fucking yourself open on your fingers. Wasn’t enough was it sweet boy?”

Stiles whines in reply.

“God the scent in here,” Peter continues, “It’s perfect. I can smell how close you are.”

Stiles goes to grab his throbbing cock but Peter nocks his hands away.

“Just from my cock sweetheart,” Peter instructs, “That’s all you need.”

Stiles whines louder but does as he’s told. He gasps, pants and whimpers, practically ramming his prostate before he comes, eyes closed and mouth slack save for Peter’s name. At this sight, Peter almost comes too, blissed out on the combination of scents. Stiles is sensitive but Peter doesn’t care, too busy chasing his own release.

“Peter,” Stiles whines, strung out. Within seconds of this declaration, Peter is coming. He trails a finger in the come on Stiles chest and licks it off. Stiles smiles sleepily, slowly removes himself from Peter’s dick. Stiles slumps down next to Peter, practically breathless. Peter pulls Stiles towards him, curling around him and pressing soft kisses into Stiles sweaty hair. 

“I’m not leaving this bed for a while am I?” Stiles asks, humour coloring his tone.

“I should have thought that was obvious,” Peter drawls. He smells Stiles happiness, like sunshine and sapphires and is content.


End file.
